


left it running full of shame

by orphan_account



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-24
Updated: 2011-03-24
Packaged: 2017-10-17 06:15:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/173797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phillip Frances Gallagher, and Ian trips through the words like beads of a rosary, stuttering on the name they share. Everyone knows the Gallagher boys are no good. Everyone knows that, and they’re right about that, they’re entirely right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	left it running full of shame

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Marina & the Diamonds' "Guilty".

Ian has loved Lip for what feels like his entire life, what amounts to his entire life. Every memory he has includes Lip somewhere, centre stage, around the fringes, it doesn’t matter, because he’s there. Lip’s the only thing that ever has been.

So it’s wrong, maybe, to forget that, the protective big brother, always in the corners of his head. It’s wrong, definitely, to think about him the way he does, Ian Gallagher, the block’s little cocksucker, who thinks of his brother when he’s in the bed next to his, who listens to him breathe when he bites his hand to muffle sound. The last thing Ian ever needed was another cross to bear.

He knows it’s wrong, but vaguely, like he knows the catechisms and the lord’s prayer. Frank had never been the churchgoing type, and Ian had been young when Monica had given up on god, or god had given up on her. He remembers it vaguely, the sting of kneeling too long, fire and brimstone, Lip muttering jokes into Ian’s ear until Fiona was elbowing him and Ian was trembling in the pew to keep from laughing. Ian had never been a good Catholic boy, and he isn’t going to start now.

God says it’s wrong, but god’s never been there for Ian, not once, and he thinks that god doesn’t have the first idea of family. God sent his only child for sacrifice and dispassionately watched him die. Ian thinks god is a lot like Frank. Neither of them is his father.

*

Phillip Frances Gallagher, because Frank likes to stamp his name on things he has no right to, things he doesn’t deserve.

Phillip Frances Gallagher, and Ian trips through the words like beads of a rosary, stuttering on the name they share. Everyone knows the Gallagher boys are no good. Everyone knows that, and they’re right about that, they’re entirely right.

*

Ian doesn’t know what he’s doing. Ian’s doing this all blind, just wants someone around him, just wants someone else to feel like him, and Kash feels guilt like he does, Mickey does, but Ian wants to yell in their faces, say “your sin cannot compare to mine”, wants to punch Mickey right back for thinking being gay is worth being ashamed, wants to drag Kash out of his cowardly hole. Ian has worse things to be ashamed of, worse things he should atone for, but he doesn’t want to atone.

Ian comes home battered from trading himself like currency, Mickey’s mark upon his face, under his clothes, under his skin, and Lip says “Jesus Christ,” when he sees him. Tilts his head from one side to the other, examines him, and Ian’s not entirely sure what he sees, Lip’s fingers on the bloom of colour on Ian’s face, gentle. Ian squeezes his eyes shut, wonders if Lip can smell Mickey on him, hopes he doesn’t, hopes he does.

 _Are you your brother’s keeper?_ Ian thinks, and he laughs under Lip’s fingers until it hurts, laughs until he wants to cry, and Lip smiles at him, searching for the joke and, Ian prays, dear _god_ , not coming close to finding it.

*

Monica comes back and leaves destruction everywhere she treads. Ian searches for an out, any out, but everything he does seems to leave paths crumbling beneath him. Mickey’s locked up in an iron cage, layers of glass, and Kash won’t look him in the eye, won’t fire him but won’t keep him either, and Lip is miles away where Ian can’t quite reach him. Ian has never felt more alone.

“You’re still my brother,” Lip tells him, when it’s all out, and Ian is afraid that’s not what he wants, Ian’s afraid that’s not quite enough. He’s still Lip’s brother, but now they only share half the blood pumping through their veins, and Ian doesn’t know if that makes it better, Ian doesn’t know if that makes it right. He thinks it probably doesn’t.

“And hey, you’re my cousin now too,” Lip says, and Ian stares at him, stares at the sins stacking upon sins, brother, cousin, boy who doesn’t know what he’s doing.

“Yeah,” Lip says. “Not funny, sorry,” and that’s when Ian laughs.

*

Lip crawls into his bed one night, their shoulders brushing, their knees, like every time Ian had a nightmare when he was little, like every time Lip ignored being the tough boy to be the big brother and wrapped him up in skinny arms. Ian’s frozen, still, while Lip breathes beside him.

“Show me,” Lip says, barely sound, his throat closing over the words, and Ian tugs Lip over, onto him, before he can change his mind.

Lip looks scared above him, more scared than any closet-case Muslim or shaking boy playing at butch could be, so Ian says “I won’t break,” even though he’s not sure that’s true. Even if he’s pretty sure he’s already broken.

“Won’t you?” Lip asks, and Ian closes his eyes, afraid what Lip will find in them.

It’s all stuttered, Lip’s fingers on his face like he’s checking for bruises, for cracks, Lip’s fingers, fumbling, unsteady, curling beneath the waistband of Ian’s boxers. Lip’s eyes on him, steady, even as his hands are shaking.

Ian’s stretched out beneath him like an offering, the worst virgin offering, and Ian thinks _for you, I’d do it. I’d sacrifice myself for you._

“You can do it,” Ian says, his voice breaking over the words. “Just do it.”

“Jesus,” Lip says, “you do this with everyone?”

“Just you,” Ian says, and it’s almost easier when Lip looks at him like he’s a liar.

Lip in him, and it hurts, like fire and brimstone and the burn of Lip’s eyes, the part of his lips. It hurts, but Lip is moving slow, like he’s afraid of breaking him, and Ian wants to tell him it’s too late for that, that it doesn’t matter now, but the breath is punched out of him with every shift of Lip inside him.

“Ian,” Lip says, the word as tender as a prayer, and Ian pulls him down, closer, presses his mouth to the seam of Lip’s mouth so he doesn’t have to hear anything else, the stream of words he doesn’t deserve. Ian closes his eyes, screwed shut, but he can still feel the weight of Lip’s eyes, the weight of Lip pressing him down, and thinks _for you, for you, for you_.


End file.
